“Of course. Take your time,” he replied. “I have to check on our car rental anyway; it’s being delivered to the hotel later. So once you’re done, meet me outside,” he said, pointing to where cabs were queued up in line.
Inside the bathroom, I squeezed myself and luggage into a stall and stood there clenching my fists, FUUUUUUUUUUCK! What the fuck am I going to do?
Don’t you think you’re overreacting? a sensible part of me reasoned. So he’s not what you expected physically, so your initial meeting didn’t play out how you imagined. This is a man you shared hours of conversation with—erotic conversation, too. And he’s a really decent, caring man . . . remember? You haven’t even given him a chance!
I sighed and shook my head. It was true. I was being brutally judgmental. And melodramatic. And mean. The very least I could do was respect him enough to relax and enjoy our time together as friends.
Ten minutes later, I exited the bathroom and met John outside.
“Ready?” he asked, calmly, brow raised. I knew he didn’t just mean to catch a cab.
“I am,” I said firmly, this time with a genuine smile.
Who knows? I thought as I opened the door and slid in. Maybe my attraction for him will grow.
LUCKILY, THE ISSUE of “same room” or “separate rooms” was easily postponed. John’s company was holding a postconference wrap up in the meeting room upstairs, with hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. “I really should make an appearance,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Are you in the mood to socialize?”
“Sure!” I replied, enthusiastically.
“Good.” He smiled slightly. “How about if we check your luggage at the front desk for now?”
“Great idea.” I replied, knowing he’d deliberately bought me some “time.”
For the next hour, John introduced me around a packed room abuzz with predominantly male conversation. His engineering colleagues, maybe thirty in total, were also wearing casual clothes—some in jeans, some even in shorts. “We decided to ban suits for the last day,” he said lightly when I’d whispered it felt more like a barbecue than a business meeting, “It’s been a long week and everyone’s ready to cut loose.”
Without even trying, I found myself easily enjoying myself. The fact that I was Canadian spawned lots of questions and jokes; small talk flowed easily. John behaved like a total gentleman—making sure I was never alone, yet not smothering me and giving me space to socialize. Nor did he ever touch me. Not even so much as to guide me by the elbow. I watched John periodically out of the corner of my eye as he mingled. I couldn’t help but notice how enrapt his colleagues were when he spoke; that he drew them in; that he carried an air of respect and power. Even in a group of men that looked like they could be hanging out at the beach, he was clearly the alpha in this room. Not that he was boisterous or domineering—rather, he spoke little but meant what he said. And he listened a lot. I liked that. I liked watching him listen. How his face remained calm. How his eyes took people in. How no one else here knew they were talking to a dom. Watching him, I could now imagine what he’d looked like all the many nights we’d spoken over the phone; I could attach a real life visual to his voice. And I found myself wondering about and imagining “other” things about this man—sexual things . . . unexplored things.
John the Dom of my imagination was yielding to John the Dom the real man.
UP IN OUR hotel room, I finished getting ready for dinner and sat on the end of the bed, waiting, while John finished preparing in the privacy of the bathroom. I had changed into a knee-length, royal blue dress and high-heeled sandals, and I felt pretty—though a bit self-conscious about my Canadian glow. As I stretched my right leg out to assess its whiteness and examine my painted toes, my depth perception shifted: Just behind my big toe lay the still-sealed toy box.
John came into the room dressed and clean-shaven, the light smell of cologne moving with him. My stomach fluttered immediately: He was wearing a sophisticated yet casual black suit jacket, clearly tailored, and pressed khakis. His body looked strong and fit under his clothes. I suddenly found him very attractive.
“You look beautiful,” he said, giving me a smile of genuine appraisal.
I smiled back, a little coy. “Thank you, John. You look very fine yourself.”
“Are you ready to go?” he asked, as he grabbed his wallet and car keys off the dresser; our Cadillac El Dorado had been delivered to the hotel as arranged.
I remained sitting. “Almost . . .” I said softly.
He turned and looked at me, evenly—not surprised, not inquisitive, just expectant, patient.
“I’d like to see what’s in the toy box.”
Without replying, he walked to the box and began slicing his keys through the packing tape with strong even strokes. This man did not bumble. I sat perched on the edge of the bed, watching, listening, anticipating . . .
“First,” he stated evenly, “we have bondage cuffs.” He placed them beside me on the bed. I picked them up gently, hesitantly, feeling the heaviness and smoothness of the leather-covered steel. My body tensed with both fear and excitement.
“More bondage straps,” I heard him say. An assortment of leather and metal was laid on the bed.
Deep breath. Keep cool, Delaine.
“And this—” he said, as he began unwrapping a longer black object with a leather handle, “is a flogger.” He watched my eyes as he handed it to me. “It’s soft, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I half-whispered. I touched the strands of thick leather spilling from the handle. So this is what a real flogger looks like.
“And this—” he continued, “is a crop.” He held up a thin, two-foot-long riding crop. “You know how this is used, right?” He gripped the handle and began walking around the room, flicking it. Snap. I flinched as he snapped at the air. Snap- Snap- Snap. Louder: SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
Suddenly, a scene from 9 1/2 Weeks flashed before me: Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger were in a dimly lit store; he was testing various riding crops and snapping them in the air. She sat there watching him, smiling. That movie really was about D/s! I thought. They just never showed him using it on her.
Shivers of excitement raced up my spine. John snapped his crop one final time . . . then handed it to me. The handle was warm from his grip.
He proceeded to pull out seven more toys, all of which were packaged dildos and vibrators. They were literally of every shape, size, and color. Some were so realistic, they looked like molds of real penises—veins and all; others were smooth and phallic, curved, or with ridges; one had a base with so many buttons, it looked like a control panel. Others were small handheld vibrating “bullets,” no bigger than my thumb. But they all shared one thing in common: These weren’t bachelorette party favors—they all meant business.
He passed each one to me without comment, as if he were handing me groceries to put away.
“And that’s everything I packed in my toy box,” he said, matter-of-factly.
I looked around the toy-covered bedspread and slowly nodded my head. They were but inanimate objects—harmless, unthreatening, even kind of cute. But in the hands of John, they would become tools for my pleasure. How would he use them, how many would he try, which did I fear/desire for him to use most? As I sat alone with my thoughts, John suddenly reached toward me. My body immediately stiffened; brace yourself, he’s going to kiss you!
But no . . . he was reaching for the toys. A faint smile played on his lips as he began returning them to the box.
“Are you okay with what you saw?” he asked quietly as he glanced at me and repacked.
I sat up taller and cleared my throat. “Yes. I think so.”
“Nothing in here astonished you or disgusted you?”
“No. Not really.”
Long pause. The last item disappeared into the box. “Shall we go for dinner then?” he asked, standing right in front of me.
“Yes, that would be nice,” I said, laughing lightly. I moved to reach my hand out t
o him, assuming he would escort me . . .
But he’d already turned his back to me and was walking to the door.
I LEANED AGAINST the railing of the hotel balcony having a cigarette. Night had fallen on Orange County and soft city lights shimmered in the distance. Below, palm trees swayed in the wind, the sound of their collective rustling suddenly broken by a loud splash in the pool six floors down.
A man had dived in and was now swimming its length using clean, practiced strokes. Good for you, I thought. You swim, I’ll smoke. I grinned and relaxed into the warm air. This is so much better than the minus-twenty temperatures back home.
Home . . . it felt so far away. I closed my eyes and imagined being in my children’s rooms. Right now my babies would be fast asleep. I could see their sweet little bodies all snuggled up, their faces soft and angelic. Mommy loves you, I whispered to each of them, stroking their silky hair with my hand. Mommy will be home in one more sleep, don’t worry.
I opened my eyes and forced myself back to the present. I dragged on my cigarette, trying to ground myself in my body; a body that was in a foreign city, in an unfamiliar room, with a virtual online stranger.
You shouldn’t be here! A voice suddenly screamed inside my brain. Your REAL life is a thousand miles away. Your REAL place is with your kids, your friends, your family. Go-home go-home go-home!
But I shook it off. I would be back in those shoes within forty-eight hours. I had come here to step out of the ordinary, to become more of Delaine.
I looked over my shoulder into our hotel suite. John was standing ten feet away with his back to me, going through his briefcase. I watched his khaki pants crease as he shifted onto his other foot. His blond head was down, studying a document under the dim light of the desk lamp. He looked so focused, so completely unaware of my presence, so . . . in control.
I gazed back out into the night air, my shoulders tense beside my ears. For some reason that “self-control” of his irked me. Irked me and aroused me and pissed me off all at the same time. During our candlelit steak dinner tonight, I’d deliberately kept the conversation platonic: work, kids, fitness, health. I was waiting: waiting for him to bring up the toy box; to veer the conversation into the sexual realm; to “launch his seduction.”
But he didn’t. Not a word. And as hours passed and the server removed the final plates from our table, I found myself growing impatient; frustrated. I began baiting him harder, pulling out all my “womanly charms” to test that control. I made sure he had full viewing pleasure when I leaned back in my chair and slowly crossed and uncrossed my legs. I leaned over the table seductively, I used my eyes, I made suggestive comments and threw doors wide open in conversation.
But he didn’t budge—not a flinch. He never even moved to touch me. Not that I didn’t see desire in his eyes—it was there, steady and intense, through the flickering shadows of the candlelight. But it never decided his actions; it remained under the thumb of his control. I swore I saw flickers of amusement, too. You can play all the cards you want, Delaine, I felt him say to me. I am your Dom. You will come to me.
Now, as I watched John from the balcony as he rifled through his briefcase in the light of the desk lamp, I knew . . .
I knew it was time.
I closed the sliding doors behind me and reached up and dragged the heavy curtains shut. I walked across the room, feeling ready, emboldened . . . past the table of toys to where John was standing with his back to me.
I turned him around to face me, and moved in close. His hands remained at his sides, his right hand still clutching papers. He looked down at me with calm curiosity.
“I want to play John.”
He held my gaze firmly, yet also looked thoughtful. “Do you?” he said quietly, as he placed the documents back in his briefcase.
Suddenly he reached around, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and pulled me close to his face. “You think you’re ready?” he said, more commanding.
I could only nod slightly; his grip on my hair was tight. Was I scared? No. Surprised by his sudden move? Yes. But I was game. Like entering a Haunted House at the carnival, I was more excited than afraid. I was saying yes to a ride, after all, one meant to entertain, thrill, and titillate—one that was designed for my pleasure and would see me through unscathed.
“Are you ready to do as you’re told? Are you ready to give yourself to me?”
“Yes.” I said again, with emphasis.
His intense green eyes studied my face. “You know I’ll never hurt you. But you also understand that I will expect you to do as I say.”
“Yes, John,” I replied. But my eyes were sparkling, a smirk played upon my lips. I wanted to provoke him.
Hand tightening on the back of my head, he pushed me down on my knees and held me there firmly. “What was that? Get in the position, open your knees. Now say it again.”
“Yes, John (humble, head down). I’m ready to give myself to you.”
“Good girl,” he said quietly.
“BUT—” I looked up and giggled mischievously. “You’re probably going to have to make me.”
Suddenly I was dragged on my knees across the room by the hair. Shocked, yet strangely aroused by the pain and force of his unexpected move, it took me a few seconds to realize we’d stopped. His hand still held me by the hair. I heard ruffling; the sound of cardboard—He’s digging into the toy box! I realized, and I immediately began struggling and tearing at his hand with my nails. He yanked my hair so hard I cried out. “Stop that right now,” he said through his teeth. Then the feel of leather around one wrist. Then the other. They were bound behind my back.
“Much better,” he said with satisfaction. My hands wrestled within the steely confines of the cuffs, seeking weakness or room for escape, as he stood looking down at me. “Now assume the position: Bow your head and spread your knees.”
But I was not to be a willing prisoner; he had control of my arms, not my mind. “Fuck you,” I seethed, glaring up at him.
“No, you will fuck me. You will fuck me exactly as I want,” he stated evenly. “But first you need to learn some manners.”
He pulled me to my feet by my hair and led me to the wall, where he pressed his chest against me hard. Without the use of my hands, I felt powerless and dwarfed by his size. I turned my head away, he was NOT going to kiss me: If he even so much as tries, I’ll bite him! Instead, his voice was in my ear. “Now let’s see if we can teach Delaine some manners.” One of his hands held me in place by the shoulder while the other moved possessively under my dress. I wriggled my hips and squeezed my legs together, trying to block and evade his hand. Shots of pain—he was pinching my thighs apart! His hands claimed their territory, and the pleasure of his fingers was so great, I couldn’t help but moan loudly.
His lips were beside my ear. “I know what you want, Delaine,” he whispered forcefully. “You’re so fucking wet I can feel you begging me to fuck you. But that’s not going to happen; you’re not going to cum any time soon. Not until you learn some manners.”
His fingers moved harder. I needed to escape them; I needed to escape his voice. I thrashed my head from side to side as if to say no, but my body, despite my mental protests, was clearly saying yes. “Are you ready to assume the position?” I heard. “Are you ready to apologize for being mouthy?”
But before I could even answer him, I orgasmed hard and cried out. John immediately stepped back from me, looking down in surprise at his hand, which was soaked. “You are NOT to orgasm without my permission!” he growled. I closed my eyes feeling strangely content that I’d surprised him.
He spun me around to face the wall, roughly undid my cuffs, then turned me back round to face him. I didn’t protest at all, my body was basking in postorgasm glow. I was quickly stripped: dress pulled over my head, panties yanked down in one swoop. Cuffs were being placed back on my wrists—this time locked in front of me. Hand between my shoulder blades, he half-guided half-pushed me over to the coffee table.
&n
bsp; “Get on the table. On your knees,” he ordered crisply.
I looked at him, wide eyed. A look that said, Are you fucking kidding me asshole?
“NOW.”
As I gingerly climbed up on to the table, he walked over to the toy box. I stood up tall on my knees watching him, feeling acutely aware of my nakedness, yet also curious with anticipation. What the hell was he going to do now?
He walked back toward me and my eyes moved to his hands. He carried a pink dildo in one hand, his riding crop in the other. Oh boy, here we go!
He slapped the pink dildo down in front of my hips, suctioning it to the table. “Ride it,” he ordered. “You’re obviously dying for some cock.”
My mouth was wide open in shock. As if!
He slapped my ass hard with his hand and I fell forward onto my hands. He crouched over and lifted my chin. “Next time I use the crop. Now climb onto it and fuck it. NOW.”
I dragged my body forward and positioned my hips over it. He held it upright and pushed me down onto it hard. Pleasure shot through me; my body welcomed being filled. But as I slowly began moving my hips, my mind was racing to process the newness and strangeness of what was transpiring. I was masturbating, on a coffee table, naked, in front of a fully dressed man who had handcuffed my wrists. I was a freak performing in a freak show; an animal pulled in from the wild. Yet that wasn’t true at all—I wasn’t forced into captivity but had done so willingly. My spectator was an invited audience member, not some passerby. And the act I was performing, in all its rawness and obscenity, was natural and felt blissfully good.
John walked slowly around me as my stage show continued, periodically snapping his crop. “That’s it, my little slut . . . Good girl, move that ass . . . Mmm, you love that dildo in your pussy.”
Slowly, my self-consciousness yielded to the feelings of pleasure. And attached to that pleasure was a feeling of power. For in having John stand by and watch, but a witness to my personal sexual fulfillment, I felt like I was choosing the toy over him; like he could stand there and try and direct my actions as much as he wanted, but the only person privy to the mounting pleasure was me; it was mine.
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 23